Cutting In
by Bea Ryan
Summary: Pre-Canon. Jason was looking for a reason to live when he met Charlie. Trigger warning: Cutting, suicidal thoughts, OC death.


Jason ran the blade slowly along the outline of his brand, watching as beads of blood rose to the surface and framed the M in red. He thought about slipping the blade beneath the jagged scar tissue and shearing it off smoothly so the skin he showed the world would be as raw as he felt. Maybe it would grow back more smoothly, stronger, if he let it heal cleanly and slowly. His sister Jen had tended the wound for the first ten days after the marking ceremony. She'd babied him during that brief respite between the end of his training and his first assignment, reminding him to apply salve and making him willow bark tea. Now his sister was gone and only the scar remained.

He counted to 356, one second for each day he'd been an only child. The first 302 days didn't count, not really. He didn't remember those months of infancy before she'd arrived. She liked to tell people they were twins. They'd nod their dark heads together and nod sagely. No, obviously we aren't identical. We don't even share a birthday. No one ever challenged her claim and he let it stand. He cherished being part of her team, enveloped in her secret plots, and if it meant he had to surrender his spot at the top of the sibling pecking order then so be it. Beside her was a stronger position to hold than the lead.

Three hundred fifty six days without Jen. Ever. He could forgive himself for not knowing for the first ten month; he'd been too young. It clawed at him that he hadn't known for the first 23 days after her death. That's how long it had taken his mother's letter to reach them. He'd only known he was alone for 31 days. Habits were supposed to form after 30, but how do you get used to going through life knowing no one loves you best? Knowing that when you get home no one will dive through a crowd to tackle you with a hug? With his parents he rated somewhere after each other and intangibles like pride and power. It hurt and he tried to lie to himself, but he knew it was true. A few people considered him a friend, but none of them came close to his place in Jen's world and her place in his. Now that place was empty.

She'd helped him create Nate Walker, a confident man able to charm information out of anyone. Her letters included passages from the romance novels that were passed around the teachers' lounge. She'd copy out a line or a paragraph and write, "Nate could make that work." He'd try it as soon as he had the opportunity and write back to let her know how her ideas fared. All Nate's moves were really Jen's. Jason found girls just as hard to understand or please as his father.

He'd spent his last birthday on the road, but, despite the tendency of packages to get stolen from the mail, she'd found a way to send a gift anyway. She'd gone to see a fortuneteller about his future and had written him with the report. "This is the year you're going to meet your wife. She's sweet with an iron core. She'll resist falling in love, claiming it's not the right time or things are too complicated. Don't give up on her. You need each other."

He didn't believe in fortune tellers. His missions rarely rand more than 48 hours, not really long enough for much romance to bloom in his opinion, especially since he worked as Nate. Even if she fell for him she'd be falling for a guy who was more together than he was. Cooler in every sense of the word.

He needed his next mission, needed out of the smothering supervision of camp, needed to be Nate for a while. He put the knife blade on the top right point of the M branded on his wrist and started a shallow slice under it, turning the M to an N. The knife was so sharp he barely felt the cut.

The first slap struck his hand, knocking the knife across the room. The second, an open handed slap instead of a closed fisted punch, caught him across the cheek and snapped him back to reality.

"So you think you're going to check out like a little bitch? You aren't even cutting deep enough to get suicide right," his father sneered.

Jason didn't answer. His father didn't want his words, just his obedience, his servitude.

"You shove that pussy Jason Neville down deep in a little box inside you and you get out Nate Walker. Nate's going to go charm the pretty girl, wrap-up this bullshit Matheson quest and we are finally going home."

"What's my uniform, Sir?" Jason asked.

"Civilian workman. The target is 20 and walking from her little village in Wisconsin to Chicago. You'll probably be on the road for a week. Don't encounter her if you don't have to. Charm her if you do."

"Why is she on the road, Sir?"

"She thinks she can save her brother. She's wrong."

Nate listened as his orders were given, but Jason picked at the words. Maybe she could save her brother. Maybe neither of them had to be alone.


End file.
